


Finish Line

by iconicklaine



Category: Glee
Genre: Canon, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 13:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11014587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iconicklaine/pseuds/iconicklaine
Summary: In an effort to save him from getting stuck in Lima, Burt Hummel puts his only child on a plane to New York.





	Finish Line

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr and LJ in 2012, klaineharmony asked me to post this fic here on AO3 for the Glee AO3 Fest.

There was nothing sensible about it. Putting your 18-year-old kid on a plane to New York when he had no job, no prospects, and no place to stay? It was crazy, something a buddy would do; not a father. A father would make sure his kid had enough money saved up to survive for a few months; he would make sure his kid had a job lined up, or at least an interview. A father would make sure that his kid had a safe place to crash, with a clean couch, and deadbolt locks, and nice, respectable neighbors. But Burt had to do it.

As soon as Kurt decided he might be ready to go to New York, Burt put the wheels in motion. He had one goal: to make sure Kurt got out of Lima before he waffled, before he reconsidered, before Kurt settled into acceptance and inched further down the path to a shadow life he wasn’t meant to live.

It’s easy to get stuck in your hometown. Burt hadn’t wanted to move out of Lima when he graduated, but he’d seen more than a couple of his friends trade in big dreams for a split level in the new subdivision, and he didn’t want that for Kurt. He didn’t want to hear the list of rational reasons why Ohio “wasn’t all that bad” get longer until Kurt morphed into someone else, someone wrong.

It’s an easy, gradual slide, this letting go of who you were meant to be, and most people never notice it’s happening. Burt knew that. And he also knew all too well that just because Kurt promised himself he’d never give up, convinced himself that staying in Lima was only temporary, he could fall into the trap just as easily as anyone else. Some of Burt’s best friends in the world were living alternative lives, walking around like ghosts in their own skin, simply because they didn’t leap, couldn’t try, wouldn’t go.

Kurt had to go.

That morning, Burt was up early staring at the freshly mown grass, a cup of decaf in one hand and his late wife’s picture in the other. Elizabeth would want this. She’d want Burt to do anything he could to get Kurt out of Lima, even if he had to push him out of the nest without much of a net. (He didn’t have the heart to warn Kurt that he’d likely run out of his “two weeks worth” savings in about four days; at least he’d be gone.)

Burt was standing near the dining room window in that spot no one could see from the hallway, when he heard quiet footsteps on the stairs, then whispers. He’d heard them last night, too, but decided to pretend he hadn’t. Kurt needed a last night with Blaine more than he needed sleep, and more than Burt cared about house rules.

First the creek of the door, followed by shushing and the unmistakable sound of kissing. He couldn’t make out everything that was said. He didn’t want to, really, but his heart turned over on it’s side when Blaine said, clear as day, “We got so lucky, Kurt. Right? We found each other here, of all places, and I… you’re precious to me. Don’t forget that, okay?”

Then, more whispers and kisses, and the sound of Kurt’s stifled sobs as he watched Blaine drive away. He stayed at the door long after Blaine was out of sight. Burt didn’t go to him; he let him walk up the stairs and deal with his choices on his own, because that’s how it would be now. Kurt would have friends, and maybe one day Blaine, like they planned, but his son was on his own now. Burt set the photograph down on the dining room table, caressed his wife's sweet face with his thumb, and said a silent prayer of thanks that he’d managed to get to this day: their strange, wonderful kid alive, willing, happy, in love.

Later, after he watched Kurt walk through the airport's automatic doors, his back straight and his walk determined, Burt let the tears fall. He kept the radio silent the entire drive home and forced himself to stop thinking about eight million people, and terrorists, and assholes, and creeps. He thought about that first phone call instead, the one where Kurt would say, “Dad, New York is A-MAZING!” and rattle on about every little magical thing. Kurt would call him often; Burt knew that. He’d let him in and ask him for advice because they were close, thank God. But it would just be phone calls now. And too-short visits. And emails. And texts. He’d get the abbreviated versions of stories he’d normally have heard from start to finish. He’d know some things, but not everything, and he’d have to trust that Kurt was okay, that he was safe, that he was finding his place. He’d have to get to know him all over again each time they visited because there was still so much Kurt had to learn about himself. His son would change in innumerable ways; he’d come home lighter, or stronger, or a little rough around the edges. He’d be Kurt, but more, and Burt had no say in any of it.

As he pulled into the driveway, his eyes dry and his heart heavy, like a stone, he remembered something Elizabeth said, just before she died. She'd said, “From the moment they take their first breath, you’re letting go, Burt. It’s our job to get them to ‘goodbye’.” Well, he’d done that. Why hadn’t she told him what to do next?

The house was quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioner still running due to the unseasonably warm weather. His body sagged as if he'd just finished the longest race ever known to man; he could sleep for days, for weeks. In a way, he had. He’d raised Kurt Hummel and got him the hell out of dodge before the Ohio dirt swallowed him whole.

In the too-quiet kitchen he noticed one of Kurt’s homemade cranberry muffins sitting on the counter, with a green post-it note attached to the plate that read: Dad, I made two dozen. They are in the deep freeze in the garage. Remember, a muffin is not a healthy breakfast alternative. A muffin is cake. Eat them sparingly. I’ll make a new batch at Thanksgiving. xxoo -K

Burt chuckled, pulled the plastic wrap off of the plate, and took a bite. He eyed the coffee maker, washed clean and ready for the next morning, and then went to the pantry for his secret stash. Folgers, emptied from the red can into a tupperware container marked “Dried Apricots.” (Kurt hated dried apricots.) He’d make himself a cup of real coffee, eat the muffin, and call up the credit card company to see about increasing his limit on the emergency card, maybe make that net a little bit bigger, a little bit stronger. It was the sensible thing to do.


End file.
